


Closer

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 14:05:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12728013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: Good omegas don't drink. Good omegas don't go out after dark. Good omegas don't flirt with strangers.Rhys is tired of being a good omega.





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year but never posted it here! Just a modern omegaverse AU with Rhys meeting Jack in a chance encounter at a bar, and hooking up with him to get away from his shitty boyfriend Vasquez....

[I met him when the sun was down](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TV25AOfgu8w)  
[ The bar was closed, we both have had no sleep](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TV25AOfgu8w)  
[ My face beneath the streetlamp, it reveals what it is](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TV25AOfgu8w)  
[ Lonely people seek](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TV25AOfgu8w)  
  
[ Closer, closer.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TV25AOfgu8w)

* * *

The bruise on his eye tastes sour, it burns like the curdling milk and vodka on his tongue as he nervously sips from the glass the bartender, grimy with the smell of unwashed beta, had set down before him with a questioning but ultimately uncaring look. It stings like the cold that washes around Rhys’ flip-flops whenever the door to the bar opens and frosty night air crawls in over the dirty floor mat, the scent of another stranger burning into Rhys’ nostrils as he curls in on himself against the bar counter, drowning his tongue in cream and alcohol.

_Omegas weren’t supposed to drink._  They weren’t even really supposed to frequent bars unless they were looking for hook-ups or money, and those who did that weren’t  _good_ omegas, Rhys knew that—good omegas would be home asleep with children curled up into their bellies at this hour. He’d almost been surprised that the bartender had even sold him a drink—he knew his scent was evident in the air that hung between him as the man sized him up—but maybe he’d begged sympathy through the blooming bruise over his eye. Whatever the reason—he might never know—but Rhys was grateful to smother the hell of the night in the swirling cream and dizzy alcohol that turns in the glass as he rocks it from side to side in cold hands.

Gratefully, the alphas and betas that thump through the whistling door into the warming hearth of the bar pay him little mind besides cursory sniffs in his direction that set Rhys’ nerves on fire—he watches them out of the corner of his eye as they look briefly in his direction, before going to sit in one of the sparse booths or at the length of the bar away from the omega. After their entrance they’re lost to the warm amber of the light, fuzzing slowly as Rhys takes heartier gulps of his alcohol until there’s little more than a film of cream coating the bottom of the glass. He blinks, his head tipping slightly as the alcohol settles deep inside of him, curling like home and comfort in his belly as he lets out a foggy sigh.

The alcohol battles away the tightness in his chest, flattens the anxiety at having to return home. It’s cold outside, snow crusting over the ground, and even with the coat and preheat fat clinging to his hips and thighs he knows he won’t be able to survive a night out in the city. His toes wiggle in their sandals, and he knows if he tries to curl up in an alley to wait out the night he’ll probably lose one or more of them. His fingers tremble against the glass.

He can’t go back.

Vasquez might be awake. He might smell the alcohol on Rhys. Omegas weren’t supposed to drink, omegas weren’t supposed to be out past curfew in the city alone, omegas weren’t allowed on their own without a mate or guardian, omegas were supposed to cook and clean and raise children and Rhys is breaking all the rules, he’s stepping out of line and if he goes home to Vasquez there will be nothing for him except the trap of the bed and the binds of arms and if Vasquez is calm in his anger this time that metal finger will rip across his eye and leave him empty and bleeding.

A shuddering sob escapes Rhys’ throat as he pinches the bridge of his nose, resting his elbow against the counter as he cages himself in, isolating the memory of the night’s events. Another burnt dinner. Another dropped glass. Comments on his preheat weight. Anger, screaming, bright bright red and white and blur.

Metal in his mouth. Metal in his eye. Threats and screams and stumbling, crying fluttering mist into the black cold of the winter’s night. Moon open and full like a wide eye mocking him from behind foggy lids of cloud.

Rhys is spacing out, lost in the hum of memory, when he suddenly notices someone looking at him.

The bar is an L-shape, bent around the glimmering vials of colored alcohols, and across the way from him, seated alone along the counter is a man who is looking right at him. Not staring, no, his attention flickers back and forth idly but it always seems to return to Rhys. He feels his skin prickle, nostrils flaring as he tries to get a scent on the man, his heart leaping as the oily amber and spiced wood of  _alpha_  flickers in his brain. His instincts flutter, confused between fear and interest as his eyes shift down to his empty cup, tilting the remaining cream into filmy patterns as he tries to clear the man’s scent from his nose.

_Good omegas certainly didn’t try to pick up the scents of strangers in bars._ Rhys reminds himself as he nearly dozes off in his seat, vision swimming.

His attention sparks when glass slides against polished wood and a new drink is . Startled, Rhys looked up to see the beta bartender, who jerks a thumb back towards the other end of the bar.

“That guy bought you a drink.” He says with a sour taste, shaking his head slightly as he turns his back to Rhys and returns to the rest of the customers. Rhys looks dumbly after for a moment, eyes settling on the alpha from before, who flashes him a bright grin and points to the glass sitting in front of Rhys.

It’s tall and thin, stem dainty like a champagne flute and bell full of a liquid that looks like it might be probably pale green in normal light but in the midnight amber of the bar reminds him of afternoon suns reflected in the skyscrapers you could see from his old apartment, of the haze that clung to the horizon and sizzled in the sunset.

A thousand PSAs and omega safety pamphlets flash through his mind as he picks up the drink, eyes flicking from the liquid that trembles ever so slightly with the movement of his hand and the way the man watches him with a small smile. Rhys licks his dry lips.

_Good omegas don’t drink, good omegas don’t flirt with strangers_ , but the bruise flavoring his eye already tells him he’s not a good omega.

The drink tingles on the way down, burning with fruit and licorice and not at all muted by the cream of milk like the previous drink, it sends a fire through Rhys’ stomach and he blinks several times after the first few gulps, his body alight and thrumming as the powerful cocktail surges into his stomach and calls it home. Rhys’ heart is beating faster and suddenly the smell of the alpha is coming through clearer and Rhys can pick up the subtler hints of  _spice_. He chases the drink with the man’s scent, inhaling deeply at the bitter prick of cloves and the barest hint of metal and blood that simmers beneath the surface. He feels something something like fear, but  _not_ , no—it pumps through his body like acid and makes his nerves quiver. He exhales, absolutely drunk and gives the alpha a coy flutter of lashes and a pleased smirk as he gulps at the rest of his drink.

He loses track of time and memory with the combined alcohol and pheromone riding in his body, and by the time he’s starting to realize there’s heat pooling in his crotch the bartender is shouting for last call and the residents of the bar are all ambling up and sheathing themselves in thick coats and scarves and there Rhys is in his flip flops and skinny jacket and little else. He pays with one of Vasquez’s credit cards still tucked into his wallet and leaves it sitting on the bill as he clutches the jacket tighter around himself and shuffles out the door.

The cold outside is still, like the air is frozen around Rhys, snowflakes in stasis as he steps out into the elements. His breath hangs like a cloud in front of him, and with the sudden chill on his skin Rhys is all too aware of the wet heat curling in his gut and steadily dripping downwards. He stifles a whimper into his hand, scuffing his sandals against the stomped snow as he stumbles under a streetlight. The sleet turns to gold beneath him, and Rhys in his stupor nearly slips and falls with his arms flailing out until something solid and  _warm_ grasps him, supports him, holds him upright and turns him around and looks into him with eyes that remind him of swirling sweet golden-green in pretty fluted glasses and the dangerous, needy prickle that springs up comes from more than just alcohol. One hand presses into the small of his back while the other cups his face, and Rhys can feel warmth drip down his thighs.

He inhales at the closeness of the alpha’s scent, how the sharpness of blood comes to the surface, and Rhys’ nose burns with the need to press closer, to rub his face against the strange alpha’s neck, and he must be losing his mind because all he wants in that moment is to be impossibly closer and make their two scents one.

“Do you have somewhere to go tonight, sweetheart?” When the alpha speaks, it’s like honey in the sun, and Rhys closes his eyes.

“ _No.”_


End file.
